Thursday, March 31, 2016

Black Dog Dead - March

Last month I
talked a lot about those pesky NATs (Negative Automatic Thoughts) and while
I’ve not found the perfect insecticide to clear my head of them altogether, I
believe I have made some progress.

It’s not the
kind of progress that’s as easy to measure as, for example, the daily wordcount
on any given project. And if I gauged my success by that, I’d have to report
that March has been a variable month indeed. Up days, down days, active days,
rather stay in bed days. But on the work/writing front I’ve kept things moving
on the whole.

Even faced
with the real struggle days, when the words are sluggish and my brain snailish,
I managed to drag myself up and out for the morning and write something. And
generally that had the beneficial side-effect of helping me feel that little
bit better about myself. One definite improvement I’ve noticed is my conscious
ability to congratulate myself for the minor wins.

Hurrah! Yay
me! Etc.

But before
we get too carried away, we’d best admit to the points we lost, whether through
double faults, collapse of serve or whatever other tennis analogy you care to
use.

Your sport
of choice may vary, I just happen to prefer the tennis one, despite this
month’s Sharapova-related disappointment – Maria, you let me down! But it’s
still her mental approach to each point that I’d like to be able to adopt in
the game of life. A setback should be just that – a single point, signal to
move on to the next with the belief you can still win the match.

So, the principal
enemy this month has been anger.

I’m angry
with myself just thinking about it. For allowing it to get the better of me to
the extent it has this past month.

Never really
had anger issues until one upstairs neighbour embarked on a nine-month campaign
of DIY (Do-It-Yourself and Daily Irritate Yourneighbour). Through the course of
that constant daily noise and disruption, anger somehow embedded itself as part
of my depression. Became a damaging additional symptom, almost, driving my
stress levels through the roof long before the neighbour drove a hole in our
ceiling. And made matters worse by laughing about it, through said hole.
Perhaps the anger was an entirely separate ‘condition’, but it was tough for me
to view them as distinct.

Anyway, once
the Neighbour From B&Q Hell departed, the aftereffects remained and too
often the smallest disappointments, frustrations, problems magnify into
disproportionate irritants. It’s something I’ve struggled to control, because
it’s an emotional, impulsive response and I’m at heart an emotional person. How
do you govern what plays to your nature?

Still, I’ve
managed to some degree.

Although I
still swear profusely at my computer and anything technical that goes wrong.
It’s inconsiderate, I know, but I expect machines to be dutiful slaves and do
what they’re bloody well supposed to. I’m sure I’ll be one of those first
against the wall when SkyNet launches its machine rebellion.

That aside, most
days I have learned to take deep breaths, count to however many I need to count
to see the spilt milks and other trifling mishaps in the appropriate
perspective.

Most days.

But if
exposed to anything that actually matters, I am prone to explode. And those
days even the trivial stuff promotes itself right back to major annoyance.

News, global
and national, is a frequent cause of that kind of volatility. So naturally I’ve
had to avoid much of it or ration my intake. Even to the detriment of our pub
quiz team’s performance in the current affairs rounds. But heck, there’s always
a price to pay.

This month,
the Tory plans to slash benefits (aka vital financial support) for the disabled
in order to fund tax breaks for the already comfortably off, thank you very
much, fuelled what was (obviously) entirely justifiable rage. And there was as
little I could do about the anger as I could do about a government policy that
even odious slimebags like IDS can’t defend.

Clearly, I
should get angry about that sort of thing. Anybody in their right mind would.
But when you’re not entirely in your right mind, your heart being in the right
place can be a problem.

Anger can
motivate action, of course, but what action can anyone take against a
government so reprehensible? Beyond signing a petition or protesting or
spreading word of their vile deeds on social media, etc. And I can’t actually
enter into politics as a career, because I’d be completely unable to remain
polite or civil in the face of these Right Dishonourable bastards. (And there
I’m exercising restraint because with the written word I at least have a moment
to pause and edit myself.) Anger and powerlessness are a recipe for a sense of
futility and as such a dangerous source of sustenance for the Black Dog.

One
consequence I became acutely aware of was that, even on some days when the
writing wasn’t a struggle, while I could congratulate myself on what I’d
achieved my subconscious would undermine me with the old poisonous questions:
Why? What’s the point?

Toxic
indeed. And as discussed last month, it’s essential to meet those NATs with
positive answers. It can feel like mental warfare. With the enemy dropping
dirty bombs and either you don loads of protective gear, isolate yourself, or
you go out and meet the threat with whatever weapons you can get your hands on.
And keep moving.

That latter
approach has been key to my March.

While I’ve yet
to come up with a concrete answer to those NATs that doesn’t just crumble some
days and require rebuilding, I have stuck to my guns and I’ve all but put
myself right back on schedule after those two weeks lost due to illness at the
beginning of January.

I daresay I
could have made myself busier and progressed further. But we don’t help
ourselves by measuring where we are against where we could be. On the road to
recovery, we do ourselves more favours by gauging our current position against
where we began.

And if I
can’t expect to control anger, then I might at least learn to compartmentalise
it. Maybe use it.

In the face
of opposition you can do nothing (or precious bloody little anyway) about, then
the best you can hope is to use such enemies as anger to motivate unrelated
action. Fuel for yourself, instead of food for the Black Dog.

In my case,
that translates as continuing what I’m doing. Sticking with the plan. Working
on my different projects, working on my mental good health.

And as luck
would have it, part of that includes writing the fifth volume in my Evil UnLtd
series, handily titled Vote Evil. So there’s some chance of channelling a
quantity of the political anger into something positive and – hopefully! –
funny.

If the
darkest clouds lack for silver linings, I guess painting them on yourself is
the way to go.

Buy Direct (via Paypal)

Evil UnLtd Vol 2: From Evil With Love (Signed Paperback)

Buy Direct (via Paypal)

Evil UnLtd Vol 3: EVIL UTD

Buy Direct (via Paypal)

About Me

Born in Penzance in 1967. From the age of about three I was probably dreaming of writing for Doctor Who. Certainly it wasn't a case of just watching it: I'd go to bed with all sorts of adventures and story possibilities buzzing around in my head. From the age of eleven, I knew, whenever any aunts and uncles asked the "What do you want to do when you grow up?" question, the stock replies of jet pilot, train driver, astronaut were never going to be good enough for me. "I want to be a writer", I always said. And, what do you know, I am.